<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>a touch of home by JoJolightningfingers</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25993711">a touch of home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJolightningfingers/pseuds/JoJolightningfingers'>JoJolightningfingers</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brazil Fling (Haikyuu!!), Fluff, Humor, M/M, Missing Scene, One Night Stands, Porn With Plot, can't believe this is a tag now god bless</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:42:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,339</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25993711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJolightningfingers/pseuds/JoJolightningfingers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>How do you explain the joy and comfort of the sky’s presence to a bird?</i>
</p><p>It's nice to have someone around who speaks your language, when you haven't quite finished learning who you're going to be. Hinata finds that in Oikawa; Oikawa rediscovers his passion through Hinata.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hinata Shouyou/Oikawa Tooru</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>155</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a touch of home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawberries/gifts">hawberries</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'd MEANT to have this done on the day that the last chapter came out, but instead I'm rolling in a month late with a whole lot more to say on the subject of Oikawa's and Hinata's relationship than I thought possible. It's insane to me that they interacted outside of a court face to face for three chapters out of 402 and still managed to have such a charming dynamic, Furudate is seriously some kind of wizard.</p><p>So, uh, enjoy the longest oneshot I've written in all my 12 years of writing fic.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Oikawa readily agrees to meet Hinata out on the beach in the late afternoon on his third day in Rio, despite his previous pretenses of reluctance and his token jibes about the insatiability of youth when Hinata calls him barely an hour after waking up. His morning routine glides by unprocessed around the conversation, as does the rest of the day, anticipation roiling beneath his skin long after he hangs the phone up. Being so intensely excited to play is nothing new for him. Tsukishima had plenty to say on the subject, before they all graduated.</p><p>What is new is the calm behind his ribs—a soaked-in warmth like a well-worked muscle after a hard game—when he gets there and catches the day’s first glimpse of Oikawa, standing lean and languid under the beach-bright sun in board shorts and a worn-out white t-shirt that flings the daylight in Hinata’s eyes. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time someone thought of Aoba Johsai’s former ace as <em>dazzling</em>, he supposes, but it probably wasn’t for that specific reason. Oikawa lifts a hand in greeting when he hears his name shouted, his slanted grin visible even from a distance. The sand is still hot from noon and squeaks underfoot as Hinata races to join him.</p><p>“So, how was your day at school?” Oikawa simpers, patting Hinata on the head the second he gets in reach. Hinata brushes his hand off with a laugh and gets out ahead of him to avoid further ruffling. Oikawa chuckles too, dimples on display when Hinata twists mid-step and smiles at him over his shoulder, pointing off into the distance where knots of people gather around the raised nets.</p><p>“C’mon! Last one there pays for açai bowls after!”</p><p>A minute later Oikawa’s doing that triumphant cackle Hinata remembers faintly from high school, hands on his hips and head tossed back for dramatic effect, while Hinata catches his breath in ragged pants, spitting grit off his tongue. “You’re a couple years too early to outrun me still, shorty!”</p><p>Beachgoers peer at them quizzically from shaded tables and in passing (in laying too—there’s one man outright staring over the edge of his sunglasses from the comfort of his beach towel). For once it’s immaterial to Hinata, who makes a show of squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest in challenge, when he gets his wind back. “Next time,” he vows, pointing a damning finger at the setter. “You’re not gonna beat me like that again!”</p><p>Oikawa gives him a wolfish grin and one of the bottles of water out of his pack, which Hinata decides to interpret as an apology. “Like what?” he asks all innocent, breaking the seal on his own bottle. “Like tripping you so you landed flat on your face? That’s what you call practicing a dive, kid.”</p><p>“That’s what you call sabotage!” But Oikawa only laughs, and Hinata’s not mad at him—only motivated. So he lets it slide, dusts the sand off, and goes to set them up a game.</p><p>He’d thought this the first day they teamed up to play, and repeating the experience only strengthens the opinion, that Oikawa must possess the same sort of magic that Kageyama does. Kageyama was his main setter for all three years of high school, but they’d had others—Suga, sometimes Noya, and the underclassmen that joined the club starry-eyed and hopeful after the third-years had graduated. None of them, no matter their level of experience, were capable of matching his pace at first. Hinata had rapidly learned to excel in the art of throttling back, in meeting the setter halfway. Kageyama hadn’t needed restraint from him, ever.</p><p>Oikawa doesn’t either. Oikawa has even less experience playing on sand than he does, and it doesn’t seem to hinder his ability to toss in the slightest. Oikawa’s first time setting for him was two days ago and it feels as though it could have been the thousandth, the millionth. He’s not one to default to thinking in terms of beauty when regarding a setter’s form but Oikawa’s undoubtedly <em>is—</em>the angle of his jaw, the shadow of his throat, the tendons in his wrists. He only gets to fully appreciate how much hard work it must have taken to achieve that consistency for a half second of his approach each time but that makes it all the better, in his opinion.</p><p>Hitting those kinds of tosses lights up the same certainty that he’s <em>going</em> to score, the one he got addicted to ever since the first time he flew with his eyes open and the breeze at his back. It’s like coming home.</p><p>That giddiness follows him down to the ground, in the burn of his calves and the sand sticking to his palms, that make the impact of each spike and each high-five they share linger that much longer. You can’t get that kind of sting from an indoor court. He sees a version of the same sentiment in Oikawa too, in the way he holds himself poised, the ferocious delight he puts into each rally and each short celebration afterward.</p><p>“Great toss!” he tells Oikawa what feels like every other point, exuberant. In the break after their first game, he entreats, “You’re amazing, you <em>gotta</em> teach me some while you’re here!”</p><p>“And make more competition for myself? Come on, as if,” Oikawa jokes, his face suffused with color. Could be sunburn or exertion, Hinata reminds himself, but the way Oikawa refuses eye contact for the short while they spend rehydrating and retaping their fingers is telling. The sudden emergence of brief pointers on putting up a ball here and there, when they find another set of opponents to play against, even more so.</p><p>The Grand King blushes under praise. What a character.</p><p>Oikawa buys the açai bowls when they play themselves weary, even though he won their race. They pass the twilight swapping stories—Hinata’s animated with his spoon more often than not, Oikawa using his for emphasis where it counts, both reveling in the comfort of familiar words in a familiar tongue. By the time their bowls are empty, the day has nearly gone, and the inside of Hinata’s mouth tastes how the sunset looks to him—sweet and blooming color still, a warm, dark aftertaste at the fringes, and an overwhelmingly pleasant fullness: in his belly, in his chest still when he sees Oikawa’s gaze linger on him as they turn to go, like he's the one who's magic.</p>
<hr/><p>“You’ve been keeping up with the Olympics, haven’t you?” Oikawa asks from the blue, as they’re ambling back to the paved roads. The night above glows with hard white starlight and the blurry smears of sodium lamps, sings with the shrill of katydids hunkered in the beachgrass.</p><p>“Yeah, sure have! Well… I try to.” He stumbled on the station that they air the tournament matches on mostly by chance, flicking through staticky channels in the zoned out way that an overheated college student is prone to. The sound of a spike booming off the court, a sharp and unexpected contrast to the crackly white noise, shook him free from it; he’s since memorized the number and the timeslot it shows, even if he can’t understand half of what the announcers are saying. “The reception in the dorms isn’t great. But what I have seen has been pretty amazing. What about you?” Hinata jogs a couple steps ahead of Oikawa, turns to face him while still walking backwards. “Have you been watching?”</p><p>“Oh, off and on,” Oikawa hums, sounding evasive. “When I have time.” He bounces the ball he’s holding off his palm a few times, head height, before setting it up higher. It makes a perfect arc that follows his forward motion; he doesn’t have to exert any extra effort to toss it again. Hinata stares, watching his form as he does it again, and again, and again. He can almost feel the weight of the ball himself whenever Oikawa’s hands cup it. “So I guess you’re planning on catching the game tomorrow night?”</p><p>He’s just had a full day of spiking every toss Oikawa put up for him and yet, there is the compulsion to do it again, a giddy little swoop in his guts. To master himself, he turns around so he’s watching where he’s going instead, idly kicking a wayward pebble down the road and out of sight. <em>Pok, pok, pok</em>, goes the ball off Oikawa’s hands, metronomic. “Japan and the U.S., right? Yeah.” He tries not to sound too downcast about the prospect of watching it on their grainy little TV. This match is <em>important</em>, though.</p><p>He hears Oikawa stop the ball and make a long, drawn-out humming noise behind him that peters into a brief silence. On the other side of it, the setter says, “Well, as it happens, yours truly has the evening free. Come by my place, you can watch it there.”</p><p>Hinata nearly trips on his toes spinning back around, jaw dropped. Oikawa blinks at him. His step falters; Hinata stops as well. “Wait, really?” Hinata asks. Oikawa’s wearing a mirror of Hinata’s own surprise, eyebrows raised like he can’t believe he made the offer either, which strikes Hinata as a little odd.</p><p>“Sure, why not?” It’s a shade too casual and Oikawa is fidgeting with the ball, twirling it between his hands like he means to serve it. Hinata must still be wearing his dumbstruck face because the setter adds, with no small amount of suspicion, “What’s that look?”</p><p>“No, it’s—uh, thank you! It’s just,” Hinata says, and—oh, he thinks he understands now. He struggles down the smirk dawning through the pleasant ache of his own excitement and finishes, “I thought you didn’t watch Kageyama’s matches.”</p><p>The callout has the predicted effect: Oikawa sticks his nose in the air with an overwrought ‘hmph’, arms folded defensively across his chest. “Oh, shut up, or I’ll take my invitation back.” His theatrical disdain fails to reach his voice, though, and the good humor in it eventually infects the rest of him, one side of his mouth picking up in a little smile. Hinata returns it and hops back a couple paces to nudge Oikawa with his elbow. Oikawa pokes him back, of course.</p><p>“I’ll be there with bells on,” Hinata promises.</p><p>“If you wear bells, I’m seriously not letting you past the door.”</p>
<hr/><p>‘Oikawa’s place’ is a motel room an eight-minute bike ride from Hinata’s dorms, according to the GPS. Not the first choice for lodging he would have figured for someone like Oikawa—who had always seemed a tad prissy to the younger version of himself, if no less dangerously skilled for it—but then, it has been several years. Just as Hinata’s recognized how the passage of time has shaped him, he’s sure Oikawa has grown even more, in ways that would be more readily apparent to him, had he known Oikawa from an earlier age and had the comparison to draw on.</p><p>He’s a little surprised how wistful the notion makes him. What would he have seen in the Grand King that Kageyama knew? What would he have thought of him? What would be different if he had known him then? Hinata spares a little smile for the nostalgia as he pumps the pedals, flying along sand-dusted concrete fast enough to leave his dwelling in the past. At present, he’s got a date.</p><p>He arrives punctual (sans bells) and raps the door, shuffling foot to foot with the universal ‘am I at the right place’ anxiety. Which Oikawa swiftly lays to rest, opening the door up and waving him in. “Heya, you’re early,” the setter teases, eyes dipping briefly to appraise the mini-cooler Hinata has hefted in his right hand with curiosity. “What’cha got there?”</p><p>Hinata grins wide and pops the top of it, revealing three bottles of beer poking out of a layer of ice. “Some refreshment,” he presents, with a proud flourish. “Gotta do something to pay you back for this, don’t I?”</p><p>“Oh, you’re <em>too</em> kind, shorty,” Oikawa says, his thanks implicit in the sparkle of his warm brown eyes. He steps aside to let Hinata in.</p><p>The room itself is snug (“Well I’m only staying here a week,” is the explanation the setter gives him while tucking the bottles away in the minifridge, “so there’s no need to blow the money on anything fancy.”) and built with a space-economy that wouldn’t be out of place back home. There seems at first glance like there should be too much furniture for the walls to contain but Hinata finds it all quite comfortable, even taking the lack of a couch into account. Oikawa brought takeout from the place they ate two nights ago; they tuck into it on the edge of the bed, conversation sparse while they wait for the game to begin.</p><p>It doesn’t stay quiet for long, once the formalities are out of the way and most of the food is gone. The game starts explosively, as it means to go on—the Americans neatly take the Japanese serve (nobody either of them are familiar with) and wipe it off Sakusa’s fingertips. And from there, the discussion tumbles out naturally.</p><p>“He doesn’t look too happy about that,” Oikawa snickers about the sour glower Sakusa graces the camera with, munching.</p><p>“I feel his pain,” says Hinata solemnly. “But wow, must have felt good for that hitter!”</p><p>“Wow, whose side are you on?”</p><p>“Our side, duh! What about you?”</p><p>Oikawa pauses, a sure herald for his particular brand of cheeky contrarianism. Sure enough, he fires back, “Whatever team is playing against Japan.”</p><p>Clearly he’s being insincere, heckling for the fun of it, but he’s wandered into a trap all the same. “Then why are you getting on me for appreciating the American hitters?”</p><p>Momentarily stymied, Oikawa just blinks at him. “Oh, you’re no fun,” he pouts eventually, drawing a chuckle out of Hinata. “Almost as bad as Iwa-chan.”</p><p>“Oh yeah, your ace! What’s he been doing all this time?”</p><p>Oikawa tells him, looking pleased that Hinata remembered and even more so that he’d bother to ask. The conversation rockets back and forth between topics along the course of the first set—Iwaizumi leads into Sugawara (“So whatever became of your Mister Refreshing?” “Who?” “Your setter. The third-year one.” “Oh!”), leads into the subject of world traveling. Oikawa reacts to hearing of Noya’s departure from their sport with genuine and intense interest, and Hinata is more than happy to regale him with various anecdotes, coupled with an exhibition of the many selfies the erstwhile libero liked to send to them all.</p><p>Every so often, a particularly well-executed point derails them on a tangent to discuss it in depth. Oikawa’s insights into the playmaking aspect of the game are enlightening—and very entertaining, with the way he tends to phrase things. And, perhaps inevitably, that brings them to discussing Kageyama.</p><p>“Hmm, Tobio never managed to cut a ball <em>that</em> sharp when we were in school,” Oikawa comments, pausing mid-reach to the minifridge at the commencement of the second set. Hinata watches the replay—Kageyama flicks his wrist and waterfalls the shot down the opposite side of the net, sending the defending middle blocker scrambling. Right up until the last second, his setting form remains textbook, inscrutable. Had Hinata been facing him, he’s not sure that he could have predicted the dump.</p><p>“Yeah, he started working on that a lot toward the end of second year,” he explains, accepting the beer Oikawa hands him and clinking their bottles together with a small grin when offered. “I think that Shirabu from Shiratorizawa lit a fire under his ass or something. His dumps were <em>no</em> joke.” He takes a sip, eyes tracking Kageyama during the next point. He moves with the same precise acumen Hinata remembers; he can nearly predict what his partner’s going to do before it goes on air. His limbs have a phantom tension in them, they remember and <em>long</em> to move in step with the drum of the setter’s footwork.</p><p>“Hah, and if I know Tobio, he was probably a bit of a pain while he was working the kinks in his technique out, wasn’t he.” Oikawa wears a reminiscent grin as he settles down on his side of the bed again. “Well I mean. More of a pain. I do hope my adorable kouhai didn’t give you all too many headaches over the last three years.”</p><p>“<em>So many</em>,” Hinata stresses, garnering a guffaw from Oikawa. “But, you know…” Myriad reflections flicker to mind of those three years gone—the roots they laid, the strength they grew, the seeds they left behind. His mouth curves up. “It was great fun.” His stare lingers like the camera does during Japan’s timeout, watching Kageyama conversing with Bokuto about something on the sidelines. He looks so comfortable that Hinata can’t help but add, “For him too, I think.”</p><p>“No surprise there.” The fondness in Oikawa’s tone attracts Hinata’s attention over to him immediately. The setter regards him over the lip of his beer, imperfectly disguising his smile. “You crows gave him the first real friends I think he’s ever had. That was very nice of you.”</p><p>Between himself and Kageyama, that spark was always implicit, or defined in terms other than ‘friendship’. They’ve never said it aloud to each other, preferring to focus on the fulfillment the competitive facet of it brought them. To hear it with all the posturing stripped away flusters him. “You know we’re rivals first!”</p><p>“Of course you are,” says Oikawa indulgently, like as to an adult agreeing with a toddler that the sky is purple.</p><p>He loses whatever retort he’s grasping for to a spike that sounds like it should put a hole in the floor (he’s sort of amazed that there isn’t a crater where it hit, to be honest). The crowd’s cheering bubbles underneath the announcers—Hinata only catches every ten words or so, they’re talking so fast, but ‘that was so unspeakably cool’ is a sentiment that transcends linguistic boundaries. Hinata knows. The thunder in his breast transmutes from fight to flight and soars with the excitement of the spectators. He’s practically bouncing as the camera shifts to pan over Ushijima Wakatoshi, walking back into position calmly to begin the next point, as if he hadn’t just smashed his way clean through three blockers.</p><p>“<em>Ugh</em>,” says Oikawa emphatically beside him, and Hinata laughs. The setter’s smiling too, in a grudgingly impressed sort of way, his eyes a banked fire. “And of course <em>he’s</em> in top form, when is he not. Bastard.”</p><p>That’s a trenchant enough remark that Hinata puts aside the debate about Kageyama in favor of tugging on this new thread. “You played against Ushiwaka a lot in high school, didn’t you?” he asks curiously. “I only ever got the one match with him.”</p><p>“And middle school. More times than I care to remember.”</p><p>Hinata’s consciousness attempts to put together a mental picture of Ushijima, age thirteen, but trying to juxtapose the adult Ushijima’s aquiline features with a twiggy preteen body meets with spectacular failure. He shakes his head and instead defers to the expert. “What was he like back then? I can’t imagine him ever being, like… little.”</p><p>“He really wasn’t that different from now, I guess.” Oikawa leans forward and rests his chin on his hand, gazing fixedly at the rally in progress. It accentuates the pensive frown he’s got going, makes his lips jut so that it’s nearer to a pout. “Same stupid power, same ridiculous confidence in himself.” The setter’s mouth quirks when the American team’s quick glances off the Japanese libero’s get, and Ushijima reacts half a step too slow to save the play. “Getting into Shiratorizawa made him really fucking cocky though. You know he told me once that we’d be unbeatable if I had <em>just</em> gone to school with him instead.”</p><p>“Oog, I don’t even wanna think about that,” Hinata whines. What a terror of an idea, those two on the same team.</p><p>“Heh, me neither,” Oikawa agrees, though Hinata gets the impression they’re not agreeing for the same reasons. “I don’t think the me back then could have survived him being right about… my <em>choice</em>. Or him being all smug about it for three whole years. Eugh.” Oikawa wrinkles his nose and drinks like the very notion has left a foul taste in his mouth.</p><p>“You can tell when he’s being smug?” It’s not what he wants to ask but he’s too preoccupied to think of something less dumb; there’s a frankness in the way Oikawa leaves bare that scar that Hinata could not have prepared for. Where has he seen that attitude before, why does it seem so hauntingly familiar?</p><p>“What, did he never look smug when he was playing you?” The glance Oikawa gives him then—not hurt, so much as the ghost of it—is what draws it all together for Hinata.</p><p>It’s the same way he felt for a while whenever he would talk with the underclassmen about first year, Nationals, Kamomedai.</p><p>Yeah, he thinks to himself, with a quiet, inadequate sympathy. Yeah, that makes sense.</p><p>And yet, there’s not a trace of anger to be found—in either of them. The conversation carries on.</p><p>“I don’t think so? But… I’m pretty sure he hated me a little bit,” Hinata confides, like it’s some great secret.</p><p>The setter snorts, the grooves of his brooding expression gentling to the derisive smirk of someone amused at another’s expense. “Well, your team did beat his in his third year. You’d have to be a statue not to be sore about something like that.” He pauses and considers his words through the next sip of his beer. “Mm. Bad comparison,” he amends, once he swallows.</p><p>Hinata titters at it, all too familiar with what Oikawa means to say. “No, I mean like—way before the finals,” he clarifies, sweeping a loose hand in an arc to illustrate. “He always had this look like he was thinking about… I dunno, spiking at my head or something else that’d probably kill me.”</p><p>“Y’mean like that?” Oikawa points to the screen, which has panned yet again across Ushijima’s face, following yet another sledgehammer of a spike. As is characteristic, he looks chiseled in stone, all stoic passivity that people so often mistake for apathy. The camera sure loves him today. Oikawa continues, “That’s just what Ushiwaka looks like. I don’t think he knows <em>how</em> to make a different face.”</p><p>“No, it was different! <em>Waaay</em> more intense. <em>Super</em> intense.” Hinata swigs his beer and muses, “I think it’s because I was short.”</p><p>That theory entertains Oikawa, evidently. “‘Was?’ You still are short!”</p><p>“Hey, I’m serious!” he protests, though it doesn’t stop a grin from tugging at his own mouth, the setter’s chortling contagious. “Really, Oikawa, whenever he glared at me on the court it was like—” Words fail him, so he hastily sets his bottle aside and paws through his own hair until it lies flatter, a rough facsimile of Ushijima’s unfussy style. “‘You are tiny and fast and nothing about you makes any sense,’” he growls, voice pitched as deep as he can make it—which is still probably around an octave too high to be a faithful impersonation.</p><p>Oikawa doubles over with a laugh that shrieks out like his lungs were squeezed, shoulders quaking. He keeps laughing until Hinata catches little tears forming in the corners of his eyes and his mirth turns to breathless gasps. “What was <em>that?</em>” he wheezes, turning that radiant expression full force on Hinata, who can’t do anything in the face of it except laugh with him, feeling something take wing inside his belly, buoyant and warm.</p><p>“Ushiwaka! Obviously!”</p><p>“You’re gonna <em>kill me.</em>” It takes a minute but the ebullient laughter subsides into tremulous giggling, irrepressible in spite of Oikawa’s clear efforts. “Ow,” Oikawa gasps between short fits, straightening up gingerly and wiping at his eyes. “Ow, my <em>sides.</em>”</p><p>The good mood pervades the air even after the sounds of the court overtake the room again. They praise the good points and wince at the bad ones, high-spirited when one team or the other pulls off something that their competitive streaks yearn to outdo—Hinata’s palms twinge when a particularly hard spike lands, and he catches Oikawa’s fingers flexing unconsciously whenever the setters dash about the court. There’s nothing like spectating with someone who <em>understands</em>, more intimately than any dilettante ever could. Now and again Oikawa will snicker as the sets proceed (usually whenever Ushijima is on screen) and each time he does, Hinata does too, an echo of that laughter resonating through every cell of him.</p><p>This is as happy as he’s felt in—months, it feels like. This is as happy as he’s <em>ever</em> seen Oikawa.</p><p>He doesn’t consciously make the decision to kiss Oikawa, or even think about it beforehand. It’s just… he has to do something with the sunlight in his chest, and words seem insufficient—even unnecessary—to convey why. How do you explain the joy and comfort of the sky’s presence to a bird? Over the course of the game, he and Oikawa have gravitated closer to each other—Hinata finds he doesn’t have to move far to lean in and press his lips to the setter’s cheek.</p><p>Before he can wonder if he should examine the wisdom of that move, Oikawa turns his head and kisses back, all lush and damp from their drinking, and Hinata settles into pleasant surprise instead of worry. He’s smiling before he knows it, and Oikawa makes a little question of a noise against his mouth, but doesn’t draw back or push him further. So Hinata takes initiative himself, angling so their noses don’t hang up on each other, so their mouths fit together better. Oikawa’s the one who pokes tongue at him first and Hinata responds in kind, playful and inviting, following the length of Oikawa’s arm up to find his shoulder and rest his hand there. The setter mirrors him after a moment, long fingers brushing the slope of his neck.</p><p>It’s… easy. Simple, undemanding, and nice, to just share this proximity, this moment locked in time. When they pull apart, Oikawa has a heartbreaker of a smile playing on the fine bow of his lips. “Hm,” the setter muses, fuzzy and light. “Now, what was that for, shorty?” Teasing, still, because it’s Oikawa and of course he is, but it lacks any hint of mockery, is the thing. There’s a heat in that dark-eyed gaze that Hinata thinks may line up with his own.</p><p>Hinata’s heart <em>pounds</em>. “Mm, dunno,” he feigns, matching Oikawa for impishness. “What was yours for?” Judging by the setter’s spreading grin, they’re thinking along similar lines—if it’s just for the fun of it and Oikawa’s willing, he’s game to see where this takes them.</p><p>It’s not like he’s never considered it before, even before their unexpected reunion. Oikawa’s always been good-looking.</p><p>He’s also been damn stubborn for as long as Hinata’s known him. “Oy, I asked you first. Now spill it.” And he pokes Hinata in the side, where he’s ticklish.</p><p>Hinata squawks, squirming away. “Hey!”</p><p>“C’mon,” the setter sings, “tell me, chicken.”</p><p>He’s <em>so</em> getting revenge for that. The thought makes him smile. “Maybe you’re just that cute.” It’s only part of the truth, but it’ll serve to tell the rest.</p><p>“Oh, <em>I’m</em> the cute one,” purrs Oikawa, looking mighty pleased. “Says the shorty with the baby face.” Another poke; this time Oikawa squishes his cheek. Hinata swats his hand off, setting his bottle down.</p><p>“I <em>don’t</em> have a baby face, you take that back!” The demand is a toothless one, when he can’t stop himself from grinning at Oikawa, at the way he laughs when Hinata shoves his shoulder.</p><p>“Or what, baby face?”</p><p>“Or I’ll make you.”</p><p>Oikawa’s eyes gleam like that’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. “I dare you.”</p><p>Hinata’s on him in an instant, wrangling Oikawa down on the bed. The competition that follows reminds him of the friendly wrestling bouts that training camp tended to invite, when teammates would get into some ridiculous contest and work out their leftover energy from the day’s practice. Come to think of it, there really isn’t that much of a difference between the two. The third set provides the backdrop as they grapple at each other, a pile of limbs and laughter.</p><p>They’re a fair match for each other, Hinata is excited to find—his flexibility balanced by Oikawa’s greater strength. And it turns out the setter is just as vulnerable at the sides as he is—he screeches like a cicada in summer when Hinata jabs him there, wriggles like a hooked fish and cackles, just before he flips them both over and tries to get Hinata in an arm lock.</p><p>It ends with Hinata sitting comfy directly on Oikawa’s stomach, arched over him like a tautened bow with both the setter’s wrists pinned down by his ears. He and his prey both pant like they’ve just played a close set; in the backs of his thighs he feels how Oikawa has to strain against his weight to draw that breath. The setter doesn’t complain, merely tests Hinata’s hold by attempting to throw him off again, and then goes motionless in surrender with a wry look and a scoff.</p><p>Hinata can’t contain the pleased smirk pulling at his lips. The weight training’s started paying off. “Hah, I got you.”</p><p>“Oh dear, so you have.” Oikawa’s tone turns knowing, his gaze deep and brimming with challenge. “And now that you’ve won, what’re you gonna do, eh?”</p><p>“Hmm…” He makes a show of considering, like he hasn’t already decided on exactly what he wants. “Kiss you again?”</p><p>A flash of raw heat across Oikawa’s face; his nostrils flare on his indrawn breath. “Go for it.”</p><p>He tastes of seafood and beer, his body’s warm and pliant wherever they make contact. In some ways, it feels a lot like an extension of their tussle—the same give-and-take, the same lighthearted enjoyment, the intent shifted well to the left. This time when they pull at each other’s clothes, they’re <em>trying</em> to get at what’s beneath. Hinata shouldn’t be surprised that Oikawa’s got a bigger, firmer body, but… The noise he makes into Oikawa’s mouth is as envious as it is eager, when Oikawa shunts his hands down his shorts to grab at his ass. He drags his hands up along the terrain of muscle barely glimpsed on the beach in prior days, taking Oikawa’s shirt with it. His thumbs press in under the flute of his ribs just shy of the spot that makes Oikawa tense up and loose a chuckle on Hinata’s tongue.</p><p>“So?” Oikawa speaks the word into his lungs, pitched low and soft and promising. It runs a current down Hinata’s spine. “How you wanna do this, shorty?”</p><p>“Uh, that depends.” Hinata pushes to his hands to stare down at him. “Do you want to tell me how to handle you? Or let me figure it out on my own?” Either way, he’s more than happy to oblige.</p><p>Going by how wide Oikawa’s eyes get, that response is low on the list of things he’d expected—and far more enticing too. Hinata laughs. “What the hell,” the setter mumbles to himself, in muted awe. Then, more clearly, “Surprise me.” And, more than a little fond, “Goodness knows you’re capable of that.”</p><p>“Wow, such high praise from the Grand King!” It’s a very Oikawa-ish way to react—he even feels the same pleased flush flowering on his cheeks. He thanks him with another kiss, a hint of tongue.</p><p>“One time only offer,” teases Oikawa, hooking his thumbs into the waist of Hinata’s underwear. He snaps the elastic across his tailbone; Hinata squeaks and shoots him a pout. “Show me what you can do. Can’t say I’m not curious.”</p><p>They’ve got that in common, then; Hinata burns to know what makes Oikawa sing and relishes this opportunity to learn. He lets that fire be his rudder, tucks his face into Oikawa’s neck and planes his lips along its breath-warm length, shifting how he lies to work his fingers into the setter’s hair, thumbs caressing the hinge of his jaw. A muscle jumps when Hinata drags his tongue, just the very tip, back up over his pulse. The feathery sigh Oikawa lets slip is a pleasure all its own; Hinata hums, eyes lidding shut.</p><p>He’s hungrier for touch than Hinata would have guessed. They both are, he supposes; he can’t otherwise explain the urgency with which Oikawa slinks his hands up his shirt to leave fingerprints along his backbone, or why he cants down into him when he does, pressing himself flat, encouraging a firmer grip. His thighs squeeze Oikawa’s between them and that serves to remind that they’re not where they should be, not yet. He turns his face down, nosing into the dip between his collarbones; Oikawa lets his legs fall apart when he wedges one of his own between them, a hollow reedy sound reverberating in his breast.</p><p>Much better. Hinata lets his weight fall where it may, wholly serene at the evidence of Oikawa’s arousal pushing out against his hip. In the background, the noise of the ongoing game ceases, abruptly—he glances to see Oikawa dropping the remote in an out of the way corner of the bed. “Didn’t want the distraction,” the setter tells him, roughened at the edges, grasping for the hem of Hinata’s shirt and pulling, like a plea.</p><p>So clearly, that will have to go. As though Hinata minds—he’s hotblooded, eager, and the room’s size compresses it against his bones. “I thought I was the distraction,” he jokes, sitting up and reaching over his shoulder to shuck his top off in one quick jerk. He gets his head free in time to watch Oikawa’s eyes widen and wow, that’s an enchanting sight.</p><p>“Oh no.” The setter sounds a touch dazed, reaching toward him, gaze riveted to Hinata’s newly-bare torso. “Not here you’re not.”</p><p>He’s totally allowed to preen about this, right? Oikawa Tooru, Grand King and notorious flirt, hot and bothered over <em>him</em>. There’s not a whole lot that isn’t an ego boost about that; just the thought of it makes his pulse race. Oikawa can’t keep his hands away, engrossed in exploring every tanned, toned inch of him; Hinata pokes fun at him for that, his laugh turning husky the closer Oikawa wanders to the swelling tent in his shorts.</p><p>“Can you really blame me?” Oikawa counters, breath hooking up for an instant at Hinata’s clever hands seeking out his nipples through his top. “You were a skinny little brat the last time we saw each other.”</p><p>Intrigue gets the better of him. “What am I now?”</p><p>“Still a—brat,” he maintains, stumbling the taunt out over his teeth. His back arches as Hinata hones his nails on his belly, creeping down, down, and stopping. “But the good kind.”</p><p>Hinata helps Oikawa sit and get out of his shirt, shamelessly running his eyes down the setter’s body. There’s a lot to admire, he decides—particularly the way Oikawa goes down willingly to the light pressure of a palm against his sternum, though the way his eyes sheen is anything but submissive. “Seems you’re enjoying the view.”</p><p>Well. Can’t argue with the truth. “A lot,” he agrees. Really, who wouldn’t? Oikawa’s no stranger to making himself a feast for the eyes. Hinata indulges his impulse to taste him, hums against the almond-gold plain of his stomach as he traces its valleys with his tongue. Underneath him muscles flex and press; Oikawa’s leg, which he’s still astride, rubs up against his dick trapped in <em>suddenly too much</em> fabric. Hinata chases that friction, a tremor rippling through him and coming out as an appreciative moan.</p><p>Above him Oikawa makes a sympathetic sound and mumbles, almost too faint to be audible, “<em>Really</em> enjoying the view.” Hinata cocks his head up, possessed to know what sort of expression goes with a voice like <em>that</em>. Oikawa stares at him, avid and unshy, for a long, starved moment—and is then distracted by Hinata’s hands coming up, fingertips curling into the top hem of his pants. Hinata watches how his eyes flit to them, sees and feels his abdomen clench at the catch of his nails on sensitive skin as he pulls down.</p><p>“Hey,” murmurs Hinata, “lift up for me? I wanna suck you off.”</p><p>He’s come to really love the moment when people learn that he’s grown out of having the word trepidation in his vocabulary. Understanding drops neatly onto Oikawa’s features, the realization that he doesn’t plan to do this by half-measures, and Hinata smiles mischievously into the crest of his hip at the disbelieving chuckle that rattles loose from him. Their pants are swiftly dealt with.</p><p>There’s a tattoo nestled in the falcate curve of Oikawa’s hip, kept barely out of sight by his clothes—five characters delicately etched black into his flesh. Hinata draws in a breath that’s all heavy heat, and it comes out a chuckle. “‘Until it breaks’, huh?” he purrs, bending down to see if the words taste different on Oikawa’s skin than they do on his tongue. “When did you get this?”</p><p>“Not long after I graduated.” Fingers push into his bangs and hold them back. Oikawa makes some more room for him between his legs. “Why, you like it?”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s pretty.” He presses a kiss to the ink, turns his head and takes Oikawa’s dick in hand, smoothing his thumb along the ridge. “This too.” The erudite snort Oikawa lets out makes him smirk.</p><p>“Yeah? Wanna show me how much?”</p><p>“<em>So</em> badly,” he admits, and delights in how Oikawa’s breath hitches.</p><p>With his face to Oikawa’s belly, the only gauges Hinata has for his performance are tactile ones; the tremor that runs through Oikawa’s body at the first experimental lick, the fingers clenching arrhythmically in his hair. The discovery is his favorite part of all this. With Oikawa’s patient, if breathy, guidance, prods here and there from the scratch of his nails, Hinata learns how firm to hold him, how much tongue to use. Learns that Oikawa shivers when he uses his forearm to pin one of his thighs down while he’s holding onto his cock, that it takes a long time and a lot of teasing, even at the good spots, to get him to lose even the slightest bit of control over his voice.</p><p>Talking to him helps—which perhaps tops the list of things Hinata finds arousing, now. Probably will for a long time to come. “So sweet for me,” he croons into the crook of his thigh—a little dizzy, a lot turned on. Oikawa’s hips jump to meet him, his fingers pull tension in Hinata’s hair, clutching like a drowning man’s. His breath’s in tatters. “Want more?”</p><p>The eager little moan Oikawa gives him is all the answer Hinata needs. He plies his lips along the swollen shaft with a satisfied hum. “You don’t have to hold back for me,” Hinata tells him, tongue to tip, so close to the prize his own cock aches. “I can take it.”</p><p>“You are—” Hinata never finds out what the end of that sentence was supposed to be. He sheathes Oikawa in his mouth and the words lapse into a weak groan. He’s not entirely confident he’d have been able to concentrate on whatever Oikawa told him anyway—the weight of him, the fullness that makes his jaw twinge some with his efforts, are both viscerally distracting sensations. He flattens his tongue and breathes slow through his nose, a beatific noise catching in his throat.</p><p>About the only thing that’s wrong with the world right now is that he doesn’t have a hand free for himself. But Hinata’s had time to learn patience. He can wait.</p><p>Oikawa likely has too, but it’s a small point of pride for Hinata, that he’s cultivated the ability to be thorough in technique. There’s a tinge of desperation to the way Oikawa sets his pace, his grip turns pleading. Hinata closes his eyes and takes it, allows himself to be pushed and pulled and luxuriates in the song of Oikawa’s pleasure.</p><p>It’s when his cries pitch up in warning that Hinata shifts his weight to pin him down and comes up for air, gasping for it, tongue and lips tingling and sensitive. Oikawa lets out a beautifully frustrated sound and claws Hinata’s nape, dragging a soft whine from him.</p><p>Ordinarily he’d be more than content to spend the whole night giving. Tonight, he’s desperate too. “Come here.” The words are like a physical tug, hooking into his wanting heart and reeling him in; Hinata obeys without needing to think about it, breath shallow. “Come here, fuck, come here—” Callus-rough hands take and pull him by the arms, shoulders, as close to begging as someone like Oikawa can come. Hinata crashes into him, welcomes Oikawa’s tongue spearing into his mouth. The setter swallows his keening, groping for him like he’ll suffer if there’s space between their bodies. They cling, entwined, molding to each other’s shapes.</p><p>In a pause for breath, Oikawa asks, “Where in the <em>world</em> did you pick all this up?” It comes out half a groan. The setter’s hand insinuates between them, fills the last gap. He takes them both in his fist and starts a hasty rhythm, craving tangible in the hardness of the muscle underneath Hinata’s palms.</p><p>That makes it difficult to think, but Hinata gives it his best. “I told you—” He jolts into the slick pressure of Oikawa’s cock against his own, mouth soft and open, panting. His body <em>burns</em>. “I—like the feeling of getting good at something.”</p><p>“That’s not—not what I asked.”</p><p>Flashback: sense memories of hands on his hips in the storage room after-hours, sunset spilling down the far wall, a scent like home. Vivid, like he’s reliving those times, even though the hands on him belong to someone else. Unsure how to phrase the feeling precisely, he settles for a simple, “I know some very patient people.”</p><p>Luckily he doesn’t need to elucidate; Oikawa laughs into his neck in a very knowing way, shaping a smile against his skin that trips tingles down Hinata’s spine. “Do you now,” he muses, almost to himself. When Oikawa flips them over, presses him down into the bed to claim his mouth again, Hinata lands on the thought that Oikawa—for all his forbearance behind the net—is not one of those patient people. He declines to explain what’s so funny when Oikawa asks, instead sinking his teeth into the setter’s lower lip and placating him with a few quick strokes.</p><p>The lotion off the tiny end table isn’t ideal for what comes next, but good is good enough. Oikawa straightens to his knees and opens himself up deftly on his own fingers; Hinata watches with brazen lust, a fist curled around his own dick—half to slick himself, half to keep from coming far too fast. Intentional or not, Oikawa makes a production out of himself, belly tight and chest fluttering and an exquisite wanton look smeared across his pretty face. A stifled noise wrings out of him when Hinata palms his cock against his belly. The way he stares at Hinata, eyes half open in hazy bliss, ignites something shapeless and scorching and undeniable in his gut.</p><p>“’Kawa,” he pleads, raking red lines into the setter’s side to bring him back down. He’s going to choke on the heat if someone doesn't give, and soon.</p><p>Oikawa must be of the same mind; his teasing falls by the wayside in his haste to finish up. The seconds leading up to Oikawa mounting his hips and sinking down onto his cock in one smooth, seamless glide are full of static that turns loud and frenetic and <em>yes.</em></p><p>For a minute all Hinata can do is bask in it, higher functions scoured clean out of him by the warmth of Oikawa’s body around and above and against his. Through bleary eyes he sees the setter, looking much the same as he feels. They move together, shuddery and directionless—not concentrating on their actions, so much as how close together it brings them.</p><p>A softly sighed curse anchors Hinata to what he’s doing again: he opens his eyes to find faint strain in the minute furrow in Oikawa’s brow, the divot in his lip where his teeth catch it. His fingers flex into Hinata’s abdomen, as if seeking purchase. “Sorry,” Hinata says, calling on all of his self-control to remain still. “’S not too much, is it?”</p><p>“No,” Oikawa says, quick and sharp to cut away any misunderstanding, like he can’t stand for Hinata thinking that he doesn’t want this. “Hah, hell no, this is <em>perfect</em>.” And he rolls his hips back in a sinuous wave, a louche moan dripping off his tongue. Hinata swallows dry and gives up trying to curb his body’s pleas for satisfaction; his nails dig into Oikawa’s thighs as he drags him down hard onto his cock, falling in with the pace Oikawa sets.</p><p>It’s passionate, verging on ferocious, a wholly carnal give-and-take. As on the court, he eagerly offers as much as he demands—Oikawa steals a kiss from him, hands clawed into his shoulders, and Hinata lets him, letting him go just long enough to bring a hand down open-palmed on his ass as he ruts inside him. Hinata can’t decide which sound he likes more: the satisfying pop of skin on skin, or the mewl Oikawa lets slip.</p><p>He knows for sure that he likes how it makes Oikawa clench up around him. He tears away from the kiss to fill his lungs, every gasp ending on a soft moan. “Oh,” he breathes, squeezing where he struck; it must be a little tender, he’s well aware of how hard he can hit. “You like that.” It’s a question, but it doesn’t end up sounding like one.</p><p>Oikawa leans back into his hand, putting all his weight on Hinata’s hips as he grinds shallow and shaky. His voice is raw when he answers, eyes screwed shut: “<em>Yeah.</em>”</p><p>Hinata does it again just to hear the way he swears, all cracked and needy, hips stuttering up in search of more. He lets instinct drive his body and his tongue—Oikawa responds so well to it, he can’t help himself. Later he might be embarrassed at how freely he runs his mouth but in the moment there’s hardly anything else he’d rather do than watch Oikawa twist and squirm on his dick with every compliment. “You <em>really</em> like that,” Hinata murmurs in senseless wonder once he’s reddened his ass, pulling him apart in an attempt to bury himself deeper in, and feeds his fire on Oikawa’s insistence on more, harder, faster. “Fuck, Oikawa, you’re so <em>tight</em>.”</p><p>Oikawa stares at him with glassy eyes and parted lips, throat working like he wants to say something, but he merely flashes teeth in a little grin that makes Hinata’s chest constrict and slows his roll to catch his breath, lifting a hand to rake his sweaty bangs out of his face. Hinata bites his lip and readjusts his grip, gulping his heart back down where it belongs. The night hums calm around them like a living thing; Hinata inhales it in in the hopes that he’ll never lose it.</p><p>“Not tired yet, are you?” Oikawa drums a beat on Hinata’s ribs, not even trying to mask the tremor in his thighs that betrays his own fatigue.</p><p>Hinata returns the grin, a shade more cocky. “Mmh, not yet.” By now he knows Oikawa well enough to recognize the more obvious times when the setter asks a question using a completely different one. So it’s no surprise that Oikawa has ample time to wrap an arm around his neck for balance when Hinata tips him backwards into the sheets and plants his knees. Freed of the need to support himself, Oikawa groans in quiet relief, lets the tension drain down into quivering lines of his arms and legs; one hand against Hinata’s belly, searing fever-hot, the other fisted tight around his leaking cock.</p><p>The low and fervent, “<em>Fuck</em>, yes,” that tumbles out of the setter when Hinata rolls his hips shoots straight to his dick. A moan kicks against his teeth thinking of how Oikawa <em>must</em> have felt him twitch just then; he hangs one of Oikawa’s legs in the crook of his arm and hauls him back into each thrust, greedily watching how Oikawa tosses his head back with a pitched cry, jerks himself off roughly in time with the pace Hinata sets.</p><p>At that point, there’s no point trying to think coherent thoughts. It’s better by far to float adrift in all the input—Oikawa’s heel against his ass for leverage, the hand against his abs coming up to brace on the headboard as each thrust turns desperate; the metered creak of the bedsprings; the viscous heat coiled springlike in every yearning inch of him. Underneath him, Oikawa’s whole body tenses; Hinata surges in to fill the gaps in him, the gaps in himself, snapping in one good time to urge him past the peak. Oikawa scratches him across the shoulder and spills himself between them with a jagged shout.</p><p>Worked to the end of his endurance, Oikawa’s face is… sweet, almost, when Hinata lifts himself to one elbow to see what he’s wrought. Slowly he goes pliant and his fingers flatten, stroking soft gratitude over the weals he left, the warmth in his eyes banked and inviting.</p><p>There’s only so much he can take. “Hey,” he whines, a little frantic, trying to warn him of how close he is—but Oikawa only digs his heel in to spur him closer, and that’s all the permission that Hinata needs. At the moment he comes he’s moored by the sensation of his forehead against Oikawa’s collarbone and the throbbing sting of the nail marks on his skin. In afterglow, everything melts off his shoulders like wax over flame—his body against Oikawa’s, Oikawa’s body against the motel bedding.</p><p>Awareness returns in trickles over long, tranquil seconds, starting with an uncomfortable reminder of how hot and sticky the last little while has left them. Hinata grumbles, rallying his liquid limbs to slide free of the unbearable heat, seeking relief in the relative coolness of the blankets. “Wow,” he says, hushed, as soon as he’s comfortable again—he turns his face to Oikawa, cheek against the mattress. “That was…”</p><p>Oikawa’s flat on his back, still panting like a bellows. He slides his upthrown arm down to pillow his head and looks Hinata in the eye, all sated and fuzzy. “Amazing?” he offers, with a wink. “Incredible?”</p><p>Hinata laughs into the sheets, rolling on his side. “Yeah, that. Fun, too. A lot of fun.”</p><p>“You’re telling me.” The setter looks amused. “Consider me surprised, shorty.”</p><p>Oh yeah, he had said something about that at the beginning, hadn’t he. Hinata beams at him, wolfish and proud, and sits up to stretch before the ache cools into his muscles and leaves him stiff. “I’m gonna. You want the shower first? I did sort of… make a mess of you.” His gaze darts over the length of Oikawa’s body, bronzed in the glow of the TV, which is still on. A quick glance reveals the game’s moved on to the fifth set.</p><p>The setter tilts his head down to consider himself as if Hinata’s assertion was somehow new information, idly stroking fingers through the pearly drops collecting in his navel. “Heh, yeah you did. I suppose I’d better, ah?”</p><p>Hinata tidies while Oikawa bathes, for want of something to do with his hands and the current of nerves that thrums inside him—he’s just finished changing the sheets when it’s his turn to wash off. Oikawa’s dressed from the waist down again, resting with an obvious spot left open to his right when Hinata returns, freshened up and settled down. His heart skips some when he takes that offered spot and Oikawa scoots a hair closer in, shoulder to shoulder with him.</p><p>This intimate affection was born here, and it will die here too, Hinata realizes—as soon as the day turns over and the door opens and they go to walk their separate paths. Around that thought, he feels only a warmth akin to quenched steel, something like the difference between being full and being hungry. He can easily imagine himself fostering a desire—an obsession—to make Oikawa look the way he looks now over and over again until the end of time, but sparks like that are transient things. Later, maybe. Now, it's simply enough that he doesn’t feel cold. The softness in the setter's touch says they'll still be friends after today.</p><p>“Hey, Oikawa?”</p><p>“Mhm?”</p><p>“Thanks. For. Y’know, this.” Hinata gestures quick and embarrassed at the two of them, shuffling his legs beneath the sheets.</p><p>Oikawa’s face shows surprise for an instant before he manages to paper it over with a familiar smirk. “C’mon, you’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, shorty.”</p><p>Hinata pulls a face at him and bumps him firmly in the hip with his knee. The angle’s so weird that he doubts it’ll even bruise. “For this!” he repeats emphatically, while Oikawa chuckles all smug. A little frustrated, because he’d <em>meant</em> to tell him explicitly, but somewhere on his tongue the translation got lost. “For. For being here.” And now he’s in dangerous territory, speaking a language entirely incompatible to his meaning. An incident jumps to mind from a few days ago, of confusing his classmates into thinking origami was folded from tree leaves—same sort of lexical error. “In Brazil! Ugh, it’s like—” He waves his hands around in an attempt to better describe his meaning, but that doesn’t help either—abstracting an abstraction only makes the problem worse.</p><p>Luckily Oikawa never seems to have these problems reading between the lines, not in all the brief time that Hinata has known him. He just slices through his fumbling with a, “Yeah, I get you,” and a little nudge. “Don’t mention it.”</p><p>Oikawa’s relieved too, Hinata realizes after a pause—and only after Oikawa beckons him down to first flick him teasingly in the forehead, then kiss the corner of his mouth, and finally put an arm around his shoulders when Hinata flops back into the sheets within reach.</p><p>The game winds down to its conclusion—Hinata watches it through half-lidded eyes, lulled by the cottony quiet clouding the air. Japan wins by the slimmest of margins: the volume’s muted still but he’s lived in victories like that, he remembers how it reduces everything else in life to <em>here</em> and <em>now</em> and the people next to you, sharing it. Bokuto leaps onto Kageyama and swings him around with untrammeled jubilation, goading a satisfied smile out of him in the process; Hinata makes one to match, and closes his eyes to blot out the TV’s glare.</p><p>“Oikawa?” The question comes out just above a whisper; Oikawa’s been silent since they pulled the blankets up and Hinata’s loathe to wake him if he’s fallen asleep without him noticing.</p><p>But Oikawa hums back, “Yeah?” in a voice just as soft.</p><p>“Tomorrow, are you free again? I wanna hit some more of your tosses.”</p><p>Hinata feels his laugh as a tremor in his bones, hears the tidal white noise of it where his ear is pressed to Oikawa’s chest. The room is no louder than it was before, yet Hinata’s hardly ever felt warmer.</p><p>“Seriously, shorty,” Oikawa murmurs, remarkably fond, “you’re a <em>monster</em>.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I would be super, super stoked if you would leave a comment--or even a note in the bookmark if you bookmark it. :')</p><p>Catch me on Twitter @JoJo_LiFi or on Tumblr @jojolightningfingers. Happy Haikyuu day, friends!</p><p>a short note on the aside about Oikawa's tattoo: it's [ 折れるまで ], the back half of his favorite phrase. I like to think Iwaizumi has the other half (or is thinking about getting it).</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>